The Final Game
by NightFuryofGallifrey
Summary: Sherlock and John wake up to find themselves in a familiar place, with a familiar enemy and an impossible decision to make. No slash. Rated T to be safe.
1. Part 1- The Pool

**A/N: Hello everyone, here I am with yet another Sherlock fanfiction! It's funny, because I didn't think I would ever write Sherlock fanfiction when I first saw the show because I didn't think I would be able to portray the characters correctly. But now here I am, on my third with ideas for more. Haha. Anyway. I'll shut up now and let you read.**

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**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. They all belong to BBC. Obviously.**

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PART ONE- THE POOL

Sherlock forced his eyes open. The bright light sent off a dull throbbing in the back of his head. He closed his eyes. He was lying down, on a tiled floor. His arms were tied behind his back with a rough rope, and a similar rope bound his feet. The tiles were damp, and by the soft sound of lapping waves, he judged he was in a pool room.

Pool.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

Sure enough, he lay on the tiled floor next to the pool where he had first met Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock turned his head, ignoring the throbbing pain that sent off fireworks in his brain, trying to take in his surroundings. The only sound he heard was the soft whirr of the air vents and the lapping of the pool. No one stood anywhere in the room.

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to think, trying to remember what had happened. Why was he hear? The last he remembered was walking up the stairs to their flat with...

_John._

Sherlock opened his eyes. Where was he? He scanned the room, then tried to crane his neck to see behind him.

John lay stretched out on the tile, tied the same way as Sherlock and eyes closed.

"John," Sherlock whispered, ignoring the fact that urgency filled his voice. He tried to quiet his own breathing, to see if he could hear John's.

The sound of lapping waves filled Sherlock's ears.

Sherlock rolled over onto his side, the slippery tiles making it difficult. He scooted his body over to John's and leaned his cheek down in front of John's mouth.

Warm breath.

Sherlock exhaled and laid back down on the tile. He nudged John with his knee. "John," he whispered. "John."

John's eyelids flickered.

Sherlock nudged him again. John's eyes opened all the way. He blinked and turned onto his shoulder. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock grunted. "See if you can reach the knife in your left pocket."

John blinked again. "How did you... oh, never mind." He turned and tried to reach his bound hands to his pocket. He sighed. "I can't."

"Turn over to me," Sherlock instructed.

John started to, then paused, wincing.

Sherlock noticed the wince, noticed his shoulder stiffen. He glanced at John's shoulder, relieved that it looked like just his old war wound acting up. "Hurry up."

John sighed, but said nothing. He bit his lip and flipped over, a barely perceptiple gasp escaping his lips.

Sherlock turned over as well, then felt for John's body with his hands.

"Down more," John instructed.

Sherlock felt John's leg, then found his pocket. He reached his hand inside, fingers clenching around John's military knife. He pulled it out. "John, bring your hands up," Sherlock said. He felt John hesitate a split second, then lifted his bound hands to the knife.

Sherlock held the knife in one hand, then brushed John's hand with his fingers in the other hand until he found the rope. He brought the knife down on the rope and started sawing in a jerky fashion. The rope protested, as did Sherlock's sore and cramped muscles.

The first layer of rope gave. Sherlock sawed harder, then the knife broke through the rope. Sherlock dropped the knife. John pulled back and pulled his hands out of the ropes. He sat up gingerly, then took the knife and started working on the rope on his feet.

"Hurry up," Sherlock said.

Sherlock could hear John grit his teeth. "I'm working on it."

John cut through the rope and pulled them away. He turned to Sherlock and cut through the ropes binding his hands, then his feet.

Sherlock stretched, making sure everything still worked, then got to his feet, looking around.

John slipped the knife back into his pocket and stood, slowly. "How did we get here?"

"That's an easy one. Thought you would have figured that out by now."

Chills shot down Sherlock's spine. He would never forget that voice. He turned around slowly to face the door.

Moriarty grinned. "Hello, Sherlock. Surprised to see me?"

Sherlock said nothing. No words came to mind. His mouth grew dry and he tried to swallow.

Moriarty sauntered over towards John and Sherlock. He looked at John. "Still his faitful live-in, I see. I'm just a little bit surprised, considering what he did to you for all those years."

John clenched his fists. "Why did you bring us here?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Moriarty's voice rose and he spun around. "I wanted to have a little reunion. A trip down memory lane." He grabbed a chair from up against the wall and dragged it towards them. He grinned and stepped back from it. He turned to Sherlock. "Still speechless?"

"You died," Sherlock said, his voice low.

"Yeah, and so did you." Moriarty shrugged. "If you could survive, why couldn't I?"

"But why did you let me destroy your gang?" Sherlock asked. "If you were still alive, you could have stopped me."

"But then you would have thought I was alive." Moriarty tipped a finger at him. "And then this wouldn't have been half as much fun."

"What are you doing?" John asked.

"Hand away from your knife, please, Doctor Watson," Moriarty said. Two red dots appeared, one centering on John's heart and the other on Sherlock's forehead.

John grit his teeth, but moved his hand away from his pocket.

"Thank you," Moriarty said. He reached into his suitcoat pocket and pulled something out, keeping his hand tipped away so Sherlock couldn't see what he held. He set whatever it was on the chair, and pulled his hand away.

A small bottle, with a single pill.

Moriarty reached into his other pocket and pulled out an identical bottle and set it down next to the first. "Now, Sherlock. You have a choice to make."

Sherlock stared at the bottles, then glanced back at Moriarty. "There's a good bottle, and then there's a bad bottle. I've heard it before."

"Yes, you have."

"And you know which one is which, I suppose?"

Moriarty shook his head. "Nope." His eyes widened. "It's a surprise."

"I make my choice, and we both take a pill, otherwise your men shoot us," Sherlock said. "Not very original."

Moriarty closed his eyes. "No," he said, drawing the word out. "The bottle's not for me. One's for you." He opened his eyes and looked next to Sherlock. "And the other's for John."

_To be continued..._


	2. Part 2- Which Bottle?

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. Except maybe the knife. I guess the knife can be my OC. Cool. Everyone else belongs to the BBC.**

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PART TWO- WHICH BOTTLE?

John stiffened, but said nothing. He glared at Moriarty, who grinned like he was having the time of his life... which he probably was.

He glanced at Sherlock. His face was blank and he stared at Moriarty.

"And why would we agree to that?" John asked, looking back to Moriarty.

Moriarty pointed to the little red dot hovering on John's chest. "You've got two choices. Door number one: You can refuse to play my little game, and you'll be shot on the spot. Then you'll definitely be dead. Door number two: You play along, and each take a bottle. One of you will survive." A look John could only describe as sheer, sick pleasure came across the consulting criminal's face. "And only one."

John clenched his fist, bringing it near his pocket. If he could get to Moriarty before the gunmen had time to react...

"So what do you think, Sherlock? Hm?" Moriarty stuffed his hands in his pockets and strolled forward. "What do you think of my little game? Our little game? Our final game."

Sherlock kept his face blank. "Very good." His voice sounded a bit hoarse. "But why now?"

"Why?" Moriarty shrugged. "Because I've let you get away unchecked for far too long. Why now? You figure it out."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, scruntinizing his opponent. Moriarty took his hands out of his pocket and spread his arms wide.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "You're dying."

John started with surprise.

Moriarty nodded once. "I knew you'd figure it out. What gave it away?"

"But..." Sherlock stared at him. "It's the only thing that makes sense. Why now. Why this place. How?"

"Brain tumor." Moriarty brushed off the edge of his coat sleeve like they were talking about something casual like the weather. "I've got a month, tops."

"But you look fine," John said.

Moriarty shrugged. He wiggled his eyebrows. "All hyped up on drugs." He turned to Sherlock. "Funny thing, the brain. Even your best ally can turn on you in the end." He straigtened. "But now. Stop wasting time! You two boys have an important descion to make." He nodded towards the bottles. "I'll give you two a little space." He turned his back and started walking towards the other side of the pool.

John pulled out his knife and leapt towards him. A gunshot went off, but the bullet missed John as he knocked into Moriarty and they both fell into the pool.

Sherlock dropped to the ground on instinct, and a second bullet whizzed over his head. He ducked behind the chair with the two bottles. He looked into the pool.

John had his knife at Moriarty's throat and they both thrashed around in the water. "Call... them off!" He spat through a mouthful of the chlorine permeated water.

Moriarty stopped thrashing. "This seems a bit familiar doesn't it?"

Sherlock turned his head slightly and found another red dot aimed at his head.

"Call them off," John growled.

"Yes, well, but I'm afraid I can't do that," Moriarty said, his hair dripping into his eyes as he floated in the water.

"Call them off or I'll kill you," John repeated.

"I have no doubt that you would," Moriarty said. "But see, since I'm dying, I've started to make precautions. I've got a brain tumor, and I had no idea what that would do to my intellect and ability to make descions. So. They're under orders for by no means to change what I've told them to do. If you don't drop the knife, they'll shoot Sherlock." He puckered his lips. "And well, I suppose you could do it that way, if you'd rather not mess with the bottles."

John glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock shook his head. The red dot remained.

"Any second now..." Moriarty said.

John dropped the knife and it sunk to the bottom of the pool floor. Moriarty nodded. "Wise choice, Dr. Watson." He pushed away from John and swam over to the side of the pool wall. He climbed out and shook like a dog, spraying drops of water onto Sherlock. He brushed off his suit, then reached a hand down to John.

John hesitated, then accepted Moriarty's hand and pulled himself out of the water.

"Now, let's see if we can avoid any more heroic soldier moments," Moriarty said. He flicked still more water off himself. "Now, I shall give you some space." He walked around the pool and to the other side, where he pulled up a chair and sat down, crossing his legs and squeezing out his coat.

John turned to Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were closed and he had his fingers steepled under his chin. He opened his eyes and stared at the bottles, eye level from where he sat on the floor.

John walked to the other side of the chair. He wondered if Sherlock could even figure out which bottle was which.

"You'll get out of here alive."

John looked up, frowning. "What?"

Sherlock looked up at him. "You'll get out of here alive. I'll figure out which is the right bottle."

John laughed bitterly. "Uh, no."

Sherlock blinked. "No?"

John shook his head. "No. You're not taking the poison pill."

Sherlock stood up. "John, I can figure out which pill is which. You can go home. You'll be safe. You can do whatever it was that you're going to do next month with Mary."

John's heart constricted. "Marry her."

"Right. Whatever." Sherlock reached towards the bottles.

"NO!"

John's shout echoed throughout the pool room, never seeming to end.

Sherlock froze and looked up in confusion.

John realized he was trembling, and tried his best to stop, but to no avail. "No. Sherlock. I can't... I can't... I don't matter. You have to get out alive."

Sherlock straighted up. "What do you mean you don't matter?"

"The world needs Sherlock Holmes," John said, amazed that his voice didn't tremble as much as he thought it would.

Sherlock frowned. "John..."

"No." John squeezed his eyes shut. "You can't... you have to..." He broke off.

Sherlock reached for the bottles again.

John heard the movement and opened his eyes, lunging forward. He placed both of his hands on each bottle protectively.

"John, get back," Sherlock said, his voice almost annoyed.

"No," John said. "You get back. And promise that neither of us will take the bottle until we come to an agreement."

Sherlock hesitated. He stared John in the eye. John didn't waver, staring back with soldier intensity.

"I promise," Sherlock said. He backed up away from the chair.

John let go of the bottles and stepped back. "Now. You figure out which one is the bad pill, and I'll take it."

"No."

John sighed. "Please, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Sherlock, please." Desperation crept into John's voice.

"Why?"

"People need you," John said. "Even if Moriarty dies, there'll still be his gang to deal with."

"Lestrade can handle it."

"You can't die again!" John shouted, his voice echoing through the room once more. He desperately tried to stop shaking, but to no avail. "You can't. You..." His voice quavered and he closed his eyes. "I can't watch you die again. It killed me to go on without you. You'll be fine. You're Sherlock Holmes. You can go on. I... I can't. I'm... I'm not strong enough. I can't do it again."

John opened his eyes and looked at his friend. Sherlock was staring at him with a confused and almost sorrowful look on his face. "John," he said quietly. "You are the strongest and best man I have ever met. The world doesn't need Sherlock Holmes. It will be fine without me."

"But I won't."

The two men stared at each other in silence.

"This is extremely interesting, but I don't have forever," Moriarty piped up from across the pool. He rested his chin on his hands.

Sherlock looked over at him. "How long do you have?"

"I could drop off any second if that's what you're asking," Moriarty said. "However, then I wouldn't get to see you die and I'd be a very unhappy camper. So." He lifted up his wrist and pulled back his coat sleeve in a melodramatic manner to reveal a watch. "You have one minute to make your decision."

John and Sherlock stared at each other.

"I'm not going to let you die," John said quietly. "Not if I can help it."

"And I won't let you sacrifice yourself for me," Sherlock said.

"Looks like we're at a stalemate then."

"Fifty seconds!"

"There's one option we haven't considered," Sherlock lowered his voice. "We could refuse."

John frowned. "But-"

"Obviously neither of us are going to let the other one take the bad pill," Sherlock said, his voice tense. "So either we take a random chance on the bottles, or we can die together."

"But-"

"You said you weren't strong enough to go through it twice." Sherlock swallowed. John thought he saw something akin to fear and sorrow in his eyes. "I- I'm not strong ebough to go through it once."

"Twenty seconds!"

John stared at Sherlock, saying nothing.

Sherlock looked away. "I... couldn't do what you did, John. I couldn't go on."

"Time's up!" Moriarty stood up from his chair and started walking around the pool. "Take up your bottles, gentlemen."

Sherlock looked back up at John.

John swallowed at looked at Moriarty. "No."

Moriarty stopped a few feet away from them. "No?" He raised his eyebrows. "You _do_ know what this means."

"Yes," John said. He glanced at Sherlock, whose face was an emotionless mask once again. "And we won't play your game."

Moriarty pouted. "Aw. But what says the great Sherlock Holmes?"

"We refuse."

Moriarty sighed. "Fine," he said, drawing the word out. "It's been fun, boys, it really has." He smiled. "Too bad it had to come to an end so soon." He raised his hand.

John caught the slightest glimpse of movement up in the rafters of the room. He reacted instantly, slamming his body into Sherlock's.

Two gunshots went off.

Sherlock felt the whisper of one as it whizzed over his head, just before he hit the ground from the force of John's leap.

A flash of searing white-hot pain exploded in John's chest and shoulder, and he cried out and collapsed on the ground.

_To be continued..._


	3. Part 3- The Final Game

**A/N: And here's part 3. And I have nothing further to say, so I shall say nothing else.**

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**Disclaimer: Actually, no, I will repeat that I do not own any of these characters; they all belong to BBC, and now I shall say nothing else.**

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PART THREE- THE FINAL GAME

"JOHN!" Sherlock was vaguely aware that the shout came from his own lips.

John lay in a heap on the tiled floor, a red spot blossoming and spreading on his chest.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet, then dropped to his knees beside John. He grasped for his friend's hand, taking his pulse. His heart nearly stopped when he couldn't find it for a moment, but there it was. Weak, but there.

But too weak.

Moriarty pursed his lips together. "Well, that works, too."

Anger. Burning, burning anger welled up inside Sherlock. He'd thought he'd felt anger when Moriarty had framed him as being a fraud all those years ago. But those feelings were child's play compared the inferno burning inside him now. Sherlock stood, slowly, and turned around to face Moriarty.

Moriarty stared at him coolly. "I told you, Sherlock," he said. "The last time we stood in this room. I told you- I would burn you. Burn the heart out of you." He looked down at John., then back at Sherlock, a smirk creasing his face. "Feel the burn yet?"

Sherlock lunged towards Moriarty, but the other man expected it and dodged easily. "That really what this is going to come down to, Sherlock? All our games, our puzzles, our dance. And the final game is a fist fight? I'd thought better of you."

Sherlock started to lunge forward again, then he realized something. "Why haven't your henchmen shot me yet?"

Moriarty grimaced. "To be honest, I was wondering the same thing." He raised a hand and brought it down, but no shot came. Moriarty sighed in exasperation. "I expect they've left."

Sherlock knit his brows together. "Why?"

"I hired them to make sure one of you died. Apparently since they took care of that, they thought they could leave." Moriarty shook his head. "It's impossible to find good help these days."

"Then it's just you and me," Sherlock said.

Moriarty grinned. "Just you and me."

Though the burning haze of fire and pain, John could just barely make out voices. He lifted his head with great effort that nearly caused him to blackout. Sherlock and Moriarty stood a few feet away. The fire burning in his chest created a hazy cloud of pain in front of John's eyes and in his mind, making him unable to concentrate. He knew he had to concentrate. He had to do something. Something wasn't right.

Suddenly, he realized Moriarty's henchmen hadn't shot Sherlock. And a new idea, a hope that he could somehow get Sherlock out of here alive came to mind.

He tried to move his hand to his coat pocket, but the pain nearly caused him to blackout. He gritted his teeth. Then forced his hand to move into his pocket and weakly grasped the mobile phone within.

"Do you know why I had to hire those men, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked. "Under normal circumstances, I would have had my right man, Colonel Sebastian Moran up there. But something happened while I was 'dead.'" Moriarty's voice frosted over and became thick with ice. "Somebody got in Sebastian's way. And somebody killed him."

Sherlock glared. "According to someone I once knew, dying is what people do."

"Oh, yes," Moriarty whispered. "Yes, that is what people do. And now I'm simply returning the favour."

Chills shot down Sherlock's spine, and he fought the urge to look at John again. He would be fine. He had to be. "So now what?"

"Well, I'm not going to let you go, that's for certain," Moriarty said. "Even though John chose the 'bad bottle' in a sense. You aren't going to win this time, Sherlock Holmes. This final game- it's mine."

Sirens filled the air, startling both men. A brief flash of alarm shot across Moriarty's face.

"I think a few new players have entered the game," Sherlock said.

The alarm on Moriarty's face smoothed out into a look of confindence. "Doesn't matter. I've already won."

Movement from the floor startled both of them even more than the sirens had. John lunged forward and slid into Moriarty's ankles, knocking them both back into the pool.

Sherlock threw off his long coat, then dived in after them.

John struggled against Moriarty, but his wound and the sudden burst of movement before sapped his strength. Sherlock swam over to the grappling men, but Moriarty suddenly let go of John and dove beneath the surface.

Sherlock grabbed John and started to tow him back to the wall.

A sudden flash of pain shot up Sherlock's leg. He let go of John unintentionally and whirled around in the water just in time to see Moriarty break the surface, holding John's knife in hand.

Moriarty shot a triumphant grin at Sherlock, then in one swift motion, threw the knife at John.

John cried out, and more red coloured the water. Moriarty pushed back, and dove under the water again. Sherlock grabbed John and hauled him out of the water and onto the tile floor.

John coughed, a wet, spluttering sound. His knife protruded from his chest.

An emotion Sherlock could only describe as fear gripped his heart.

John coughed again. "Sher...lock..."

"Don't speak," Sherlock commanded with more strength in his voice than he felt. "Save your energy. You're getting out of here yet."

John gasped in pain, and grasped the knife's handle, but didn't pull it out. He looked at Sherlock with eyes full of pain, regret and sorrow. "Too... late for... that."

The double doors banged open, and five armed officers burst through, Lestrade at their head. He stopped when he saw John and Sherlock on the ground.

Sherlock ignored them. "John, you're wrong," he said, his voice actually quavering. "Shut up. Just please, shut up."

John tried to smile. He gasped and coughed again. Sherlock grabbed his hand and squeezed it. John opened his mouth and tried to speak.

"Don't..." Sherlock started.

"No," John gasped. "No time... Please. Don't... stop. For me. Don't... keep living. Caring... is an... advantage." He squeezed his eyes shut, his breaths becoming more laboured. He forced his eyes to open one last time and stared Sherlock in the eye. "Thank you," he whispered. "Goodbye... Sherlock."

"No," Sherlock whispered. "John!"

John smiled, then gasped one last time before his body went still.

_To be continued..._


	4. Part 4- Blood on the Tile

**A/N: Well, here it is, the final part of the final game. You all have permission to kill me now.**

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**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. They all belong to BBC. And I pray that Moffat won't ever do anything as cruel as what I've done.**

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PART FOUR- BLOOD ON THE TILE

"John," Sherlock whispered. "John, please." He clutched John's hand in his own, unwilling and unable to let go. He forced his trembling fingers to take John's other hand and feel for a pulse.

Nothing.

Over by the doors, Lestrade kicked into action. "Freeman, get the paramedics outside! Donovan and Stephens, with me." They ran to Sherlock. Lestrade caught sight of the pool. He swore. "Darnell and Harris, in there and get him!"

Lestrade dropped to his knees next to Sherlock. One glance told him all, and he closed his eyes briefly in shock and grief.

Sherlock barely noticed the people running around and shouted. His head spun and his leg throbbed, but he could stare at nothing but John's vacant face and the blood on the tiles.

Lestrade placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and shouted at the paramedics just rushing through the doors. Sherlock shook Lestrade's hand off.

The paradamedics reached them, and two immediately dropped down to John. One looked up at Lestrade and shook his head.

Sherlock looked up at them. "Idiots!" he snapped. "Don't just stand there! He needs medical attention!"

"Sherlock." Lestrade worked with another paramedic to pry Sherlock's hand from John's. "Sherlock, I'm sorry."

"No," Sherlock growled. The paramedics swarmed over, taking John and lying him on a stretcher.

Lestrade raised Sherlock to his feet. "Sherlock, he's gone."

"No!" Sherlock burst forward, ignoring the blinding pain in his leg, as some paramedics tried to get him to back up so they could treat him. The paramedics with John started to take him away.

It took all of Lestrade's strength and three other officers to keep Sherlock back. Sherlock fought against them. "No! They can't take him away! Please! He's my friend! Don't take him away!"

Lestrade grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and forced him to look him in the eye. "Sherlock, Sherlock listen to me. You have to calm down. You're in shock, and injured. Sherlock..." Sherlock tried to burst away again. "Sherlock, he's _gone_. I'm sorry. There's nothing you can do."

Sherlock stopped struggling and a weary look came over his face. He shoved off the officers and sat down, letting the paramedics treat him. Lestrade's chest constricted as he watched Sherlock stare as a sheet was pulled over John's head.

#

Sherlock hesitated before stepping out of the cab. _What are you doing here?_ He asked himself. He looked over to Mrs. Hudson who clutched a boquet of flowers. _What is the purpose of bringing flowers to a gravesite? _He wondered. _The person is dead; they can't see them._

Dead.

Sherlock shook his head and limped past the iron gates surrounding the cemetery, leaning heavily on his cane; Mrs. Hudson trailing along next to him. He found it extremely ironic and painful that he had to use a cane at least for a while. The injury Moriarty had inflicted upon him with the knife still made walking difficult.

Moriarty was dead- really dead this time, Sherlock had checked. He'd drowned himself. Everyone assumed it was because he didn't want to be caught; but Sherlock knew. His last words: _I've already won._ He had accomplished his purpose.

He'd burned the heart out of Sherlock.

They stopped in front of a grave stone. It wasn't elaborate or anything, just a simple black headstone with the name and date of birth and death engraven in white.

_John Watson._

The name says so little about him, Sherlock realized. The name said nothing. The tombstone said nothing. It said nothing about how he'd completely changed his life. How he'd given him a life. A heart.

And now that his heart had been burned, what was he to do?

Sherlock suddenly realized that Mrs. Hudson had been saying something. She lay the flowers gently in front of the tombstone, then half-muffled a sob as she turned to walk away.

_Why does everyone keep crying?_ Sherlock thought bitterly. _It's not going to bring him back. It does no good._

He realized he was standing in front of John's grave alone. He stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and looked down at the ground.

_What am I doing here?_ He asked himself again. _You already saw them put him in the ground. What more do you hope to accomplise by standing at his gravestone?_

Apparently people spoke a few words over the grave. Mrs. Hudson had this time, and when Sherlock had "died." And so had John.

Sherlock wetted his dry lips and cleared his throat awkwardly. "I think I'm supposed to say something," he said. "I don't know why, because it's stupid and not like you can hear me." He swallowed. "Um. So, you were a good friend, and I'll miss you." He remembered back to when he had watched John at his grave. He stepped forward awkwardly and touched the top of the tombstone.

The cold stone beneath his fingertips brought him to reality. He had known John was dead. He'd seen it happen. He'd felt for his pulse. He'd seen the body, and the official report that Molly had signed with tears flowing down her cheeks. He'd seen the body in the casket, with John's hands folded on his chest and dressed in his best suit (The strangest things people did... why did it matter what he was wearing?) He'd seen them lower the casket into the ground. And he'd watched as the dirt was thrown on top of it, burying John forever.

But touching the stone made it _real_.

A weird feeling shoved its way up Sherlock's throat. He tried to clear it again. "I... I..." _What am I supposed to say?_

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

Mycroft had come to John's funeral, much to Sherlock's surprise. He said nothing to his brother the entire time, which didn't surprise him in the least, but he gave him a look that said it.

Caring is not an advantage.

Sherlock had known for a while that he had cared about John. He was very keenly aware of the fact that John had somehow gotten past the concrete barrier and found out that Sherlock, perhaps did have a heart.

And Moriarty had used John to get through the barrier and burn him.

Sherlock set his jaw. Caring was definitely not an advantage.

_Caring is an advantage..._ John's words floated back on the breeze of a memory.

_But how? How has caring helped me?_ Sherlock demanded.

_You have friends._ Sherlock could almost hear John's voice. _Not just me._

Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. Molly. They were all still here. And they all still needed him.

Sherlock sighed. "Alright, John, you win."

He imagined John's smile.

Sherlock nodded stiffly to the gravestone and stepped back, starting to turn away, then paused. He turned back around, remembering the words John had spoken over his empty grave all those years ago. "I was so alone and I owe you so much," he croaked. "You weren't a good friend. You're were a best friend. You were the best man I ever met. And no one and nothing will ever make me forget you."

A strange burning sensation pricked at Sherlock's eyes. He lifted a hand up and touched his face and found it wet.

_Stop it. Stop being an idiot,_ Sherlock told himself, almost the same moment as he heard John's voice,

_ It's alright, Sherlock. It's alright to cry._

Sherlock's throat constricted and he buried his face in his hands, letting himself cry for the first time.

After a moment Sherlock took a deep breath and straightened. He stood straight, and saluted, then turned on his heel. _Goodbye, John. Thank you._

_Finis._

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**A great big thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! It really makes my day that people take time to read and then let me know what they think. :) If you're needing it, there's a tissue box over there. Apologies for the cruelness. That wasn't originally planned. It just happened. :P Hopefully my next Sherlock fic won't be as angsty! :P Again, thanks to everyone! Hang in there until Series 3!**


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